


A Boy Named Sue

by Zeke21



Series: Projections [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Always Female Dean Winchester, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blood and Gore, Dean Winchester in Hell, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s05e03 Free to Be You and Me, Explicit Consent, F/F, F/M, Female Dean Winchester, Gender Identity, Gender Roles, Graphic descriptions of Intimacy, Hand Jobs, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Male Castiel/Female Dean Winchester, Male Sam Winchester, Non-Linear Narrative, Non-Penetrative Sex, POV Dean Winchester, Pre-Season/Series 01, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture, abstract writing style, all genders are the same except for dean, and that i've not experienced real intimacy since march, cis-sex swap, dean winchester experiences the beautiful trauma that is womanhood, episode rewrite: s05e03, idk can u tell ive had an identity crisis?, its not all dark tho i promise, not a trans story sorry, not between dean and cas tho, not of dean tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeke21/pseuds/Zeke21
Summary: "She’d meant what she’d said (Bert and Ernie are gay) and she hasn’t been fucked in a long time so it’s two birds with one stone, really. Plus, they can finally get that stick out of Cas’ ass by getting him into her – and maybe some divine intervention (penetration?) will chase out the last of the demon smoke and whoever else she’s been carrying inside herself since she was fifteen. And it’s not like Cas isn’t good looking, and it’s not like she hasn’t noticed a flash or spark or something in his eyes during all those meaningful gazes (and unlike all the other men that’ve been looking at her recently, she doesn’t smell sulphur on Cas’ breath) so it’s not like he won’t enjoy this either. The whisky probably helps in this respect – gives her the certainty she needs to get to her feet."Been thinking recently, for some reason, of the old fandom proverb: "If one of them had tits they'd've fucked 1season in". been thinking of a lot of other stuff too and this is the result.A reimagining of supernatural if Dean was a girl.You don’t have to have ready any of the other works in this series for this one to make sense
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & John Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Projections [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1167500
Comments: 9
Kudos: 73





	A Boy Named Sue

**Author's Note:**

> hmm to cut a long and boring story short I have spent a lot of the past year or so thinking/reading/writing about supernatural, about fanfiction, and about gender, often in front of mirrors and the result is an entirely alternative show that lives only in my brain. these are some 'snapshots' i guess.  
> The structure and style is deliberately a little abstract, but if it's really confusing pls let me know so I can perhaps format it a bit more clearly.  
> this fic is quite dark in places, and there are lots of references to sexual assault, so please be careful. I think I've tagged it all, but please do tell me if I've forgotten something.

She’d meant what she’d said (Bert and Ernie _are_ gay) and she hasn’t been fucked in a long time so it’s two birds with one stone, really. Plus, they can finally get that stick out of Cas’ ass by getting him into her – and maybe some divine intervention (penetration?) will chase out the last of the demon smoke and whoever else she’s been carrying inside herself since she was fifteen. And it’s not like Cas isn’t good looking, and it’s not like she hasn’t noticed a flash or spark or something in his eyes during all those meaningful gazes (and unlike all the other men that’ve been looking at her recently, she doesn’t smell sulphur on Cas’ breath) so it’s not like he won’t enjoy this either. The whisky probably helps in this respect – gives her the certainty she needs to get to her feet.

No this will be good for both of them; Cas gets to experience some of the humanity he’s willing to die for, and Dean gets to have someone else inside her for a while.

She’d said as much to the angel as she’d dragged him up the stairs – the wood creaking ominously beneath their combined weights – perhaps more than she should’ve because he looks confused and overwhelmed. Still he doesn’t stop her like they both know he could without blinking. He allows himself to be pulled into the old master bedroom – the only room in the house with a bed left. It’s a little rusty, but she’d already had Cas clean the mattress and find her some bedding when they’d gotten here, so she reckons it’ll do.

“Strip,” she orders Cas. There’s a bottle in her other hand and she takes a grateful swig against the cold air she knows is coming. “I’m doing it too, see? And smile! This is gonna be fun, Cas.”

“I’m not sure I understand your definition of fun,” Cas says dubiously, even as he begins to loosen his tie. “I don’t know if this is appropriate.”

“Ah come on! You’re a rebel now, Cas; you don’t got to care about what’s appropriate anymore. Besides – ” she shrugs out of her jacket and starts unbuttoning her shirt “ – this way, no matter what happens, you get to say you’ve been inside me before Michael,” she laughs and is only half joking when she says: “maybe if you defile me enough, they won’t want me as a vessel anymore.”

Cas’ hands still and he looks at her sharply. “Is that what you think would happen?” He asks slowly, “Is that why you want to copulate?”

“No!” she says, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “I was only…look, don’t call it ‘copulating’ like we’re watching the discovery channel or something, it’s creepy! I just… you don’t want to die a virgin, do you?”

“I don’t see why it should matter,” he says, though to her it sounds a little defensive.

“I guess it doesn’t. But here I am offering and you’re gonna pretend you’re not even a little bit tempted? That after all those years watching us mud monkeys you’ve never even wondered about what we get up to down in the dirt?”

He shifts a little on his feet. “I’ll admit I’ve been…curious,” he says slowly, his gaze moving up and down her body in the familiar sweep that she takes as her cue.

“So what are we arguing about, huh? You want to do this, let’s do it!” She starts on the next couple of shirt buttons, but stops again when she sees Cas still isn’t moving. “What now?” she asks, exasperated at this point.

“What about you?”

“What?”

“What is it you want?”

“I told you, I –”

“I cannot ‘defile’ you,” he interrupts her. “This will not change your status as Michael’s vessel.”

“I know,” she says, not knowing what he wants from her. “That’s not what…this isn’t about me though Cas, it’s something I want to do for you.”

“Why can’t this be about both of us? I am not interested in your pity, nor in what you think I want from you. I want to know what you want for yourself,” his voice is calm, and his eyes, when she finally meets them, show only a frank yet unobtrusive interest. Still it takes a few stretching moments for the question to permeate through her, and for her to allow the truth to pass from her lips.

“You,” she whispers eventually, shivering under the weight of his curiosity, unsure of how to act on the end of a gaze that demands nothing of her – that only asks. She feels naked even though she’s still fully clothed. She feels exposed and it scares her – not because Cas is there, but because he might soon be gone. She wants to be seen by him – wants to show him the parts of herself she normally keeps hidden because the thought of hiding them from him scares her more than how he might react to them. Because if she can’t show them to Cas, then she’s not sure anyone else will ever see them. “I want _you,_ Cas. Please.”

“Ok,” he says and at some point in the last few seconds he’s moved until he’s right in front of her. He puts both hands on either side of her face, tangling his fingers in her hair...

_… hair stained in stripes. Dirty orange from the fading neon glow of the bar she’s found him outside of, brown and red from the mud and blood on John’s hands. Human, but not his own. There’s blood on the money too – she’ll have to try and wash it. She’s still not sure if you’re meant to wash money, but she’s done it often enough._

_“You’re beautiful, you know that?” He slurs as she pulls him to his feet._

_“Hmmm,” she says, more to keep him focused on her and not on going back to finish whatever it was he’d started. “One foot in front of the other, c’mon. It’s not far.” It’s not, luckily – just across the road. She can see the reassuring gleam of the impala – steady and safe in the motel car park._

_John smiles and its one she’s never seen before – disbelieving, joyous. It makes him look younger. “Ain’t I a lucky one?” he says to the pavement as she steadies his weight across her shoulders. “Didn’t think you’d take me back like this…” he frowns. “…didn’t think you were ever coming back.”_

_“What? Of course I came to get you. You couldn’t stay out all night.”_

_“…don’t deserve you.” John takes one lurching step, pitching too far forward until he trips again._

_“Jesus, Dad,” she says crouching so she can get his arm round her shoulder and hoisting him to his feet once again. “How much did you drink?” She doesn’t wait for him to answer as she half carries, half drags him across the road._

_“I’m sorry,” he keeps saying as they stumble along, his breath coming in strange bursts and hiccups. “I’m Sorry, I’m Sorry, I’m Sorry, I’m Sorry.”_

_He’s heavy on her shoulder, whisky breath making her sick as it ghosts past her ear. She abandons thoughts of the bath and heads to the bed nearest the door, struggling under their combined weight. She needs to find out how to deal with that. Collapsing under his weight between a bar and a motel room is one thing. On a hunt would be another. And now that Sam is getting taller…that in itself hurts too much to think about right now._

_The hand that’s been clumsily petting her hair tightens when she drops him on top of the covers, and her head is jerked down painfully with him. She gasps, but catches it in her throat quickly. Sam is passed out on the bed next to them – finally asleep and still frowning. She can’t deal with them both right now._

_“Dad,” she murmurs, trying to pry his blood streaked fingers apart. “Let go, c’mon.” Her neck is twisted uncomfortably – forcing her to stare at the ceiling, half crouching – fumbling with her father’s hands blindly behind herself._

_“M’ry,” John’s whisper is hoarse, slurred but mercifully quiet._

_“It’s ok, just let me go, alright?”_

_But John just twists harder, dragging her head closer to him so he can bury his face in the back of her head. “Mary,” he moans into it and she feels it vibrate into her skull. “Mary, I miss you. Mary, I’m sorry.”_

_“Dad,” she’s still whispering, but more urgently now. “Dad, it’s Dean. Please, let go of my hair.” She manages to uncurl his fingers, wincing as a few strands of hair stay behind. He looks at her blankly as she turns around – checking on Sam out the corner of her eye – and that worries her. “Are you hurt?” she asks him, feeling round the back of his head for anything she might’ve missed before._

_John leans back into her hand, his own on her wrist to keep it in place. His other hand comes to rest on her stomach, she can feel the heat of it through her t-shirt. “Mary,” he murmurs yet again, fingers tightening in the fabric like he’s about to pull her closer._

_Instinct finally breaks through confusion and she slaps him, hard. Focus snaps back into John’s eyes as she wrenches herself back and out of reach. For a couple seconds they gape at each other, John cradling his face, Dean breathing heavily._

_“Dean,” John breathes, guilt, shock, and alcohol on every syllable, before he slumps forward – hands coming up to cover his face. “Shit,” he says into them. “Shit.”_

_“It’s ok Dad,” she says, still keeping her distance. “You’re drunk.”_

_“’S not ok. Jesus Christ,” his voice begins to rise ominously._

_“It’s fine, I swear,” she tries to shush him. “Just go to sleep,” she kneels as she says this – undoing the laces of his shoes so they’ll slide off onto the floor. “We can talk about it in the morning.” They won’t, she knows, because he won’t remember this in the morning. She gets up slowly, moving towards the sofa she’s already spread a sleeping bag across, but she’s caught by the flat gleam of John’s eyes – unshed tears stained orange by streetlights outside. Underneath the haze of alcohol is pain, she feels it creep up her body and it takes all she has not curl up against it – to close her eyes and wait for it all to go away._

_“If she knew –” he says, falling backwards against the bed, smearing his pillow with dust from the road. “– what I’d made you…god,” there are tears running down his face when he looks at her._

_There’s a sharp pain in her wrist and when she looks down she realises she’s clutching it so tightly that her nails are leaving small, purple moons. She wants to beg him to stop crying, to say something, anything, but her voice is congealing in her throat and she thinks if she opens her mouth she’ll be sick. Instead she stands there, hair dirty, until John speaks again._

_“Please,” he slurs, his eyes beginning to droop closed under the combined weight of alcohol and (she hopes, at least) guilt. “Don’t tell Sammy – he shouldn’t have to think of me like this.”_

_She doesn’t say anything. And it’s not until long after his laboured breathing has deepened into snores that she moves – wiping furiously at the tears beginning to dry on her cheeks…_

_…cheeks flushed in the soft glow of a lamp. The main light is off, and the switch is too far away to bother with. The halfway to dark softens Ellen’s face so that she and Dean could almost be sisters, though Jo, sitting more securely in the meagre circle of light, looks older, harder. A little bit suspicious. She doesn’t speak, though, just watches them. Her eyes are itchy on Dean’s skin._

_“Y’know,” Ellen says casually, “For all the times your Dad mentioned you, I never realised you were a girl.”_

_“Surprised he mentioned me at all,” she says back. “He wasn’t much of the mentioning sort.”_

_“True enough.”_

_“Dean’s a weird name for a girl, though,” Joe interjects, challenging from the side._

_“It’s actually Deanna,” she explains, gearing up for the usual spiel. “For my Mom’s mom.”_

_“How’d you become Dean then?”_

_“It’s all Sammy’s ever called me – he actually thought I was boy until he was about 6.”_

_Jo laughs. “Really?”_

_“Yeah,” Dean leans back in her chair, smiling at the memories. “It was before puberty, y’know? And I normally had short hair and I was mostly wearing boys’ clothes. You can’t blame the kid really; it’s not like there’s much difference between girls and boys at that age.”_

_“Sounds like you used to be a real tomboy,” Ellen says, eyes flicking up and down – taking in Dean’s long hair, the tight tank top – with a practiced subtlety that she’s sure most men would miss._

_“I guess?” Dean shrugs. “Mostly it just made things easier, especially for Dad. And there were some places we stayed where being Dean was, uh, easier than being Deanna. And… well, not safe exactly but…safer. People see a girl alone, they ask more questions, take more interest. Being Dean meant there was a bit less pressure.” Less pity is what she means really. Pity like the pity in Jo’s open mouth, Ellen’s mournful eyes. Pity like the pity hanging heavy in the air between them, draping itself across her shoulders so she has to fight the instinct to flinch away. She hates the silence pity brings._

_“Sorry,” she says into it, punctuating with a bitter laugh that practically echoes. “Didn’t mean to make things awkward.”_

_“Not your fault sweetie,” Ellen reaches across the table to take Jo’s hand in hers – squeezing softly in both comfort and warning. “You can’t help how you were raised.”_

_“It wasn’t a bad life,” Dean feels compelled to say, as always. “All things considered. I had Sam, I had Dad,” she looks to their clasped hands and then at each of their faces. “Ain’t nothing more important than family, right?”_

_Ellen nods. Jo doesn’t but she doesn’t move her hand either. They seem further away from Dean, and closer to each other, than they were a moment ago._

_“And you shoulda seen the first time Sammy twigged I wasn’t a boy,” Dean launches into the story, using the wake of shock and shame to ride away from their faces, pushing into humour where she can safely settle. “I must’ve been about 9 or 10, didn’t even need a bra yet…_

_…her bra is on the dirty floor, cut at the straps. Her shirt is in shreds at her feet. She focuses on that instead of whatever else is happening. Takes her mild annoyance at the sight and tries to grow it into nonchalance._

_“That was my good sports bra,” she says; trying for indignant, ending up as close as she figures she’ll get, considering the circumstances. “And the shirt wasn’t cheap either.” The wall behind her is rough, full of staples that dig into her back, leaving little lines of pain. Little old ladies probably left them there, back when this was a community centre and not some decaying monster hideout. “You got $50 to pay me back?”_

_There are calloused hands on her breasts, cold and dry even in the summer damp. There are blades of grass beginning to push up through cracks in the floor. There’s a huff of hot sickly air at her neck as the hands squeeze harder. The loose glass in the windows rattles in a half-hearted breeze. There are teeth, still human for now, beginning to sink into her skin. The rope around her wrists itches and stings as she twists against the bindings. It’s still not enough._

_“I’m serious,” she says, keeping her eyes on the far wall, on the mouldy remains of a bake sale flyer. “About the price, I mean. They actually cost more than that but I’m being generous because the shirt did have some blood stains on it from when I ganked your girlfriend or whoever that bitch –”_

_One of the hands leaves her chest to close bruisingly tight around her face, forcibly twisting her head so she has to meet his eyes for the first time. The pupils are so large that his eyes are just black disks, the corneas bloodshot and slightly yellow. She tries to make her own gaze face blank and bored, but he smirks anyway. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” He hisses, jerking her head from side to side as he does so._

_Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he drags his hand to her throat, the other coming up into her hair and dragging her head downwards, so she’s forced to watch as he takes a nipple into his mouth. She can’t keep the spasm of revulsion from her face and he laughs, she feels it vibrate up through her body and it makes her gag._

_There’s a sickly sliding noise as his fangs begin to descend, but it’s almost immediately obliterated by an echoing bang before he’s sliding to the floor and there’s red blood splashing across her chest, neck and mouth._

_She barely has time to gasp and flinch before Bobby is on top of him, her machete in his hand, descending in a clean arc to separate his neck from his head. After he’s done he stands there for a while, his back to her, breathing heavily. He stands there for long enough that the blood (both hers and not hers) begins to itch slightly against her skin. He still doesn’t turn around._

_“Bobby,” she says after a while. Her voice is a little hoarse; she can still feel fingers round her throat. “Little help here?”_

_“Yeah,” he says, turning his body but keeping his head down. “Here,” he’s holding her bra out to her._

_The places where her cheeks are going to be bruised burn even hotter than the rest of her. “I can’t…” her voice gives out. She tries again. “I need you to cut me down.”_

_He still won’t look at her as he edges round the body between them, stretching so he can slice through the ropes without touching her, stepping back the second he’s done. She tries to tell herself it’s just the blood. It’s a relief when her arms can finally fall to her side, despite the pins and needles. She takes the bra from Bobby’s other hand and uses it to try and wipe some of the blood off. It sort of works. She sighs and drops the ruined lump of fabric to the floor; better for it to burn with the body._

_She brings her arms up around her chest in a feeble attempt at modesty. “I need…can I borrow that shirt?”_

_Bobby makes an involuntary choking sort of noise, but a second later the shirt is being held out, deliberately positioned between Bobby’s face and her body. She puts it on and pulls it close around herself. She’s cold despite the sticky heat, and she can’t stop shaking. She wants to cry, to fall in a bloody heap to the ground. But she can’t, not until she knows if someone will be there to pick her up._

_“Bobby,” she says. “Bobby, please look at me.” He finally meets her eyes, but immediately looks away again – guilt and pity twisting at his features. She forces herself to stop shaking. She steps forward and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Bobby, I’m ok. I promise.”_

_“Dean,” Bobby shakes his head. “It’s not ok…he was…”_

_“It’s not a big deal,” she lies. “I know it looked bad but…” she fumbles for something to say that will put his mind at ease. “…it’s nothing I can’t handle,” it sounds weak to her even as she says it, but at least it makes Bobby look at her again, suspicious. Suspicion she can deal with. By some miracle, she plasters on a smile that must be at least somewhat convincing, because Bobby doesn’t instantly recoil. “I’m not some damsel in distress, Bobby,” she reassures him. “And I’d take…that sort of stuff over being beaten to a pulp any day,” the lie is so bitter it almost makes her gag, but she swallows the bile in her throat and continues to smile with a confidence she doesn’t have until she sees Bobby nod, the guilt in his eyes finally giving over to the gruff respect she’d fought so hard to earn._

_“Just…” she knows she’s taking a risk, but she has to ask. “Don’t tell Dad about this, please? He won’t trust me to have his back and he’ll end up doing something stupid.”_

_To her visible relief, Bobby nods again. “Alright,” he says, and starts towards the door. “C’mon then, let’s torch this place and go home.”_

_Her ruined bra makes a wet squelch when she steps on it, and there’s blood in her hair when she runs her fingers through it…_

… Cas’ fingers are gentle as he winds her hair around them, guiding rather than pulling her head so it’s tilted up towards him. He stops after that, close enough that all she has to do is lean forward ever so slightly until their lips are touching. One half of her expects him to yield and the other half is waiting for him to surge forward, so it catches her by surprise when he just waits. Neither pulling away nor pushing forward, but meeting her exactly. She deepens the kiss, bringing her own hands up around the back of his head and pulling him closer. He matches her intensity, leaning in so they’re pressed up against each other.

Everywhere their skin is touching she can feel him or his power, humming beneath her fingers, beneath her mouth. His fingers brush against her scalp, and she can’t help but shiver a little at the jolts of pleasure it sends through her body. Something about the feeling is familiar to her. She wonders (distantly) if it’s his grace causing them or if that’s what it always feels like when you want someone this badly. She can’t remember the last time she was touched there, or the last time she actively desired someone else with such undeniable need. Cas’ fingers trail down the back of her neck and she gasps, turning her head to the side so she can kiss the line where his jaw becomes his neck, and then moves downwards until she hits the top of his shirt collar. The thick cotton is all wrong, and it makes her hyper aware of her own clothes, still frustratingly on her body. She forgets for a second because Cas is kissing her again, but soon they become too in-the-way to ignore.

“Clothes,” she says, a little out of breath, between kisses. “Need to get rid of these stupid–” she stops because they’re both naked now. “Huh.”

“Sorry,” Cas sounds a little sheepish. “I may have been…overzealous.”

She laughs because this is the funniest thing that’s happened to her in a while. She laughs hard enough that her stomach begins to hurt, and even Cas smiles. For a few seconds they stand apart; Dean is happy to catch her breath for a moment, and to take the opportunity to look at Cas properly.

Her first instinct, of course, is to look towards his groin. His dick (she’s both relived and faintly disappointed to see) is a pretty normal looking one. It’s soft, but she doubts it will stay that way for much longer. Curiosity satisfied; she takes in the rest of his body.

The baggy suit and trench coat hide a lot, she realises. In it, Cas is an endearing dork, threatening only because she knows what he’s capable of. Underneath the ill-fitting clothes, however, his body is lean and muscled: the body of a soldier. It must have been Cas, she thinks, and not Jimmy that had made the body that way. She thinks back to the power she had sensed under his fingers, and the grace that had shattered windows and mirrors, that had made her ears bleed. He’s so big, so much bigger than she could ever really understand, and it’s evident in the angular plain of his stomach, the long lines of his arms – made hard and strong by the mere pressure of his presence.

He excites her and makes her feel small at the same time. She wants to see him – all of him – the way he can surely see her – all of her. She thinks about how she must appear to him: tiny, flat, and dirty. Almost unconsciously, she brings her arms up around her breasts.

“Dean,” Cas’ voice is soft as he steps forward to rest his hands on her forearms. His fingers are nearly long enough to encircle them completely, but his grip remains loose and warm. “Can I?” He asks, and she nods, letting him move her arms apart.

She’s not sure what to do with them when he lets go, except that she wants to be touching him again, and so she leans in close, pressing her body against his. She can feel the unnecessary beating of his heart (slow and steady) as she puts an ear to his chest, letting the vibrations reverberate through her: calming her own rapid heartbeats, leaving a warmth to settle into her stomach…

_…there’s a damp patch on her stomach from where Sam has pressed his nose into it. She can feel his sobs echoing inside her, feel his hands pressing into her hips. It’s the same thing he used to do as a child, back when she was bigger than him. Back before his hands were strong enough to bruise, back when the things that made him cry were things she could actually do something about – skinned knees and broken toys, rather than his girlfriend burning to ashes on his ceiling._

_A part of her aches for Jess. Or, at least, aches for the pieces of her she’d glimpsed through Sam. She wonders if they could’ve been friends: whether Sam or her own jealously would have let that happen. She supposes it doesn’t really matter now._

_Sam groans and the sound is instantly swallowed by the corn around them. It’s a gently swaying green and gold curtain, separating them from the road and the cloudless blue sky, tall enough that she can’t even see the impala, though she can hear the faint noise of the engine she’d had to leave running. It’s a beautiful day and she hates it fiercely for refusing to bow to Sam’s grief. She pulls him tighter, blocking out the world that’s refusing to break with him._

_“Dean…hurts…”_

_“I know Sammy,” she strokes his hair, it’s softer than it used to be. “It’s ok. It’s just us.”_

_He feels so real under her fingers, and she can’t ignore how happy that makes her. It’s a perverse and poisoned happiness, but nevertheless it’s there and she can’t quite bring herself to deny it. It’s Sam. A Sam wretched with grief and snot, sure, but also a Sam that she can see and touch. Her body soaks up his pain – parched enough from its long drought to take whatever’s offered. The part of her that’s fucked a women’s studies major (the part of her that Bobby likes the best) whispers that this is not a good idea. She ignores it._

_Instead, she allows herself to forget the world, or rather, she allows it to shrink to the two of them. She knows better than to try and impede the tidal force that is her brother, instead she rides out the waves of his emotions, allowing herself to be swept along them. The pressure builds and builds until it feels like she’s riding the edge of a bubble._

_It isn’t until her ears pop that she realises the pressure was real. There’s a boom like a thunderclap. Before she can get her bearings she’s thrown backwards off her feet, landing on her back and skidding a few more inches – tiny stones embedding themselves in her back. For a few moments she lies, dazed, staring up at the empty blue sky._

_Shakily, she sits up. The sun winks innocently at her off the roof the impala that should be hidden by corn. Said corn is flattened in a perfect circle all around them – Sam passed out at the dead centre. That, finally, is enough to shake her into action._

_“Sam!” She tries to get to her feet but her legs are still too weak, so she crawls across the dirt instead. Sam is sprawled out on his back, eyes closed, chest rising slowly. He’s not asleep, she realises as she draws closer, just exhausted. “Sam,” she says again once she’s by his head. “Can you hear me?”_

_“Dean?” his voice is barely more than a whisper. “…tired…”_

_“I know, I know. C’mon,” she manages to get his arm round her shoulder so she can shift his weight onto her back. It takes her a couple tries to get them both to their feet – he’s a dead weight and her whole body aches from the fall – but she does it eventually and starts to stagger forward._

_The corn crunches underfoot._

_“Crop circle a few towns back,” Sam says to her the next day as they wait on dinner, reading a local newspaper they’re giving out for free. “Farmer says it just appeared. Think it’s worth checking out?”_

_“Nah,” The grazes on her back twinge as she shrugs. “It’ll just have been some kids messing about: it always is.”_

_“Yeah,” says Sam, frowning a little. “Guess you’re right…”_

_“Hey, we can check it out if you want,” her heart is thumping but her smile is casual. “Might be a good idea actually: something nice and simple to ease you back in.”_

_That works; Sam looks at her indignantly. “I don’t need easing back in,” he snaps, closing the newspaper. “I told you, I’m ready.”_

_“Alright,” she says, feeling her muscles begin to relax. “If you’re sure.”_

_“I am,” he says, his eyes burning and intense in a way she thought only Dad’s could be…_

_…with some emotion that she’s not sure she can decode. His gaze is fixed on Luke as he forces a glass into his hand. The whisky tremors, rippling with the faint light of the bar._

_“Drink,” John says firmly._

_Luke does, and there’s an audible clink when the glass hits his teeth. He’s pale under his freckles (so many that he looks tanned from a distance), with a nasty gash across his nose that will probably turn into a scar. She can see, as he tilts the glass to drink, the purple rope burns that aren’t from rope around his wrists. John’s ignoring them, same as he’s ignoring the way Luke keeps shifting, unable to sit comfortably on the hard bench._

_“Good man,” John says gruffly, clapping Luke on the shoulder, apparently oblivious when Luke flinches away. “Have mine as well,” he pushes a second glass in Luke’s direction, standing to go. “I’m going to head back and make sure that thing’s good and dead.”_

_“Wait,” Dean gets to her feet too, though not before putting her hand over the top of Luke’s drink. “I think you should eat something first,” she says to him. “Just wait a sec and then I’ll order us some food ok?”_

_She manages to catch John in the doorway to the bar – out of earshot. He’s patting down his pockets, frowning. His face clears a little when he sees her. “You’ve got the keys, right?” he asks, stretching his hand out for them – his own wrists encircled in purple just like Luke’s. He sees her glance towards them and lowers his arm._

_“I don’t think you should be driving Dad,” she says, not moving. “And I told you: I already torched the whole place – there’s no way it survived.”_

_“We don’t know what ‘it’ was,” John snaps back. “It could be healing itself already – we need to check and make sure before it’s too strong to handle again.”_

_“Ok,” she concedes. “But even if that’s the case I should go and you should stay here with Luke. You saw: it wasn’t interested in me. I think it’s only going after m –”_

_“Enough, Dean,” John interrupts. “I don’t have time for this. Give me the keys. Now.”_

_She’s throwing them towards him before she’s even really processed what he’s said. He catches them and turns to go, though not before looking back over to where Luke is still sitting. He’s got the same look on his face as before – disgust, she realises. He looks at her but his eyes stay the same. “Sort him out, will you?”_

_“Yes sir,” she says but he’s already gone._

_She flags a waitress on her way back the table, asks for the least greasy thing on the menu. Luke is waiting listlessly, the whisky John left him still sitting on the table untouched. He looks up when she sits down next to him but doesn’t say anything. His eyes are wet._

_“I’ve, uh, ordered us some food,” she says, feeling awkward. “I think you’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”_

_“Thanks,” he says, voice hoarse. Silence stretches between them after that._

_“Luke –” she begins, but he interrupts her._

_“He thinks I’m weak, doesn’t he?”_

_“No,” she lies. “It wasn’t your fault. He knows that.”_

_“He wasn’t…” Luke falters. “I mean…he didn’t get…he fought.”_

_“He’s lucky. Always has been.”_

_“He –” Luke starts to say, and then falls silent as the waitress bustle’s up. She puts a plate of fries in front of Dean, beers in front of both of them, winking as she does so._

_“Thanks,” Dean says automatically, thinking that the waitress is quite pretty (as is Luke) and reflecting on how differently this night might have gone otherwise. “And,” she prompts Luke, as the waitress moves away. “What was it you wanted to say?”_

_“He won’t even look me in the eyes.”_

_“Just…” she casts about for something to say, not entirely sure why she’s bothering. Maybe because she’s fought so desperately to keep John from seeing her in exactly the situation Luke’s just been in. Maybe because she intimately understands how valuable John Winchester’s respect is, and how impossible it is to keep. “…Just give him some time.” She settles on lamely. “You’ve both just been through a lot.”_

_“Sure,” Luke snorts wetly. “He’s fine though.”_

_“No he’s not,” she says firmly, reaching out and placing her hand over his. When he doesn’t flinch she squeezes gently. “He may not be letting on, but he’s as shaken up as you are. I know him, ok? I can tell.”_

_Luke isn’t really listening, however. His eyes are focused on their hands, though she doubts he can see them clearly with the tears in his eyes. “I don’t understand why it hurts so much,” he says, looking at her. “I’ve walked off worse pain than this more times than I can count…I should be fine.” There’s a question in his words, one that he seems to think she can answer._

_“It’s not the same though, is it? This kind of pain,” she fumbles for more words, trying to help him understand. “’Cos, yeah, your body is in pain, but you’re also angry at it – you’ve got pain coming from opposite directions and you don’t know how to deal with any of it. And it feels like you’re the only one who’s having to deal with this; that it couldn’t’ve happened to anyone else; and even though that’s not true it doesn’t stop you from feeling it and…” she tries to find more words, words that could maybe describe the hurt and betrayal of the body’s weakness: the resentment of its vulnerability and desirability. She wants words that capture how that pain is warring with the pain of the loss of a shield he hadn’t even known he had relied upon until it was broken. She wants to tell him that she knows the world looks different to him now – that there are shadows in places that were once full of light; that she understands his envy and his hatred towards everyone else in the bar, apparently oblivious to the danger they’re in; how that danger is settling onto his shoulders and the back of his neck, prickling like a thousand eyes are watching him at all time. She wants to tell him all this and more, but she doesn’t have the words to describe it – it’s not something that exists in language, only in experiences. “…It’s just not the same,” she finishes, hoping she conveyed something._

_“No, it’s not,” he doesn’t ask her how she knows this, or seem very surprised that she does. “How do you live with it?”_

_“The pain?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_That gives her pause. She barely remembers living without it. “You just do.”_

_“Shit,” he says. And then he starts to cry._

_His sobs are loud enough to draw the attention of the other people in the bar; the waitress shoots them a worried look, but Dean waves her off and puts a tentative arm around his shoulder. She doesn’t want to get too close for a number of reasons, but he makes the decision for both of them, leaning into her body, muffling the sounds in her hair. She holds him until the sobs have subsided into shakes and she thinks it’s safe to pull back. Briefly and bitterly, she wonders how her father’s night is going – whether he even made it back to the smoking ruins she’d left behind or if he’s just drinking alone in the motel room. It’s hard not to be jealous, though she knows it’s not fair on Luke so she does her best to push it all aside as he begins to wipe his face._

_“Sorry,” his voice is still dangerously thick. “I don’t know where that came from.”_

_“It’s ok. It was probably good you got it all out.”_

_“God, I feel like such a girl,” he won’t look at her. “You know, I thought you were really hot – was thinking of ways we could end up in a bar alone together by the end of the hunt. Maybe if I’d been thinking less about that I wouldn’t’ve…” he exhales in a way that she can tell by the context is a laugh. “…not that it matters. You probably don’t wanna be with someone like me now.”_

_“I don’t think that would be a good idea right now.” ~~~~_

_“But, you’ll stay, right? I don’t think I can be alone.”_

_“Sure. Whatever you need,” she says, hating, slightly, that she means it._

_He doesn’t thank her. Just smiles shakily and says. “I knew you’d understand.”_

_“Of course,” she says, feeling his tears seeping through to her scalp, lingering with the sweat…_

_…the smell of sweat and sex is gradually dissipating through the window Maria left open, warm night air moving sluggishly, bringing the smell of dust with it. It’s probably going to rain tomorrow._

_Dean puts her ear to Maria’s stomach and listens. It’s soft, almost everything about Maria is soft. “You’re hungry.”_

_“Not hungry enough to move,” Maria's hand is stroking through her hair, detangling it. Her fingers brush a scar hidden in her hairline, and Dean stiffens, but Maria passes over it without comment._

_There’s a single raised line on Maria's thigh – too straight to be an accident, a stark and hairless white against the warm brown of her skin. It’s the one hard thing about her. Dean ghosts a finger down it, enjoying the way it makes Maria gasp quietly. “What happened?”_

_Maria smiles. “Sometimes I just hate it you know? Being alive?”_

_Dean nods._

_“It’s not so bad anymore, but I used to…well I guess I’m lucky because I hate pain. Even when I hated being alive, I hated being in pain more. I could never bring myself to do anything, except that one time. It forced me to stick around.”_

_“I’m glad,” Dean kisses her stomach. “That you did,”_

_‘Me too. I’m glad I’m such a coward’_

_“You’re not…”_

_“Yes I am. I can’t even get spiders out the bathtub.”_

_Dean wonders if this is what Sam found and that’s why he doesn’t call. She wouldn’t be angry if that was the case. She thinks about a world where the hardest thing she’d have to do was get spiders out of Maria’s bathtub. She doesn’t know if she’d call either._

_“I can show you symbols,” she says. “You can paint or carve them. I’ll show you how to lay salt lines. You’ll be safe, I promise. And I can get any spiders out your bath tomorrow morning before…”_

_“…Before you leave.” It’s not a question, though Maria says it kindly._

_“…yeah. I guess.”_

_“Hey,” Maria tugs gently until Dean is back up at her face and kisses her gently. She can still taste herself on Maria’s lips. “I’ll make you breakfast first – it’s the least I can do considering what I owe you.”_

_“You don’t owe me anything,” Dean says, not sure why she wants to hide what Maria’s offer means to her. She doesn’t think anyone’s made her breakfast in years. “This is just what I do.”_

_“Don’t sell yourself short,” Maria strokes a finger over Dean’s lips. “You save lives. You saved mine.” She laughs when Dean blushes at that. “It’s true though!”_

_“You’re making me sound like some kinda superhero or something,” Dean protests._

_“Super heroine you mean.”_

_“Same difference.”_

_“Sure.”_

_“Besides, it’s not very heroic; what I do. Most of it just getting yourself into shit and then back out again, hoping that you end up saving someone along the way. Then you’re on to the next town and the next monster. Then the next and the next and the next. Never seems to be any less evil in the world,” she’s surprised by the bitterness in her own voice. She hates how harsh she sounds in this warm room with its open window and locked door – how she’s brought in the world that Maria normally keeps out. Wanting to hide her shame, she rests her face against Maria’s breasts. “Sorry,” she mumbles into them. “I don’t know why I said all that.”_

_“It’s ok,” Maria says, her hand back in Dean’s hair. Stroking. “I get the feeling, I think. Maybe not on the same level but…I know what it’s like to feel like you’re always gonna be swimming upstream.”_

_“Any tips?”_

_“Breaststroke is good for building stamina.”_

_“Thanks.”_

_There’s a brief silence. Maria’s hands move down her back and up again, Dean can feel where the sweat is beginning to make them stick together._

_“My Tía Sofia used to tell me this story,” Maria says eventually. “About angels.”_

_“Is this the same Tía Sofia that I’m going to have climb out of the window to avoid tomorrow?”_

_“Yes, but she’s great the rest of the time, I swear. And she always told me this story when I was a little girl. Do you want to hear it?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Once upon a time, three angels snuck out the back door of heaven,” she pokes Dean gently on the shoulder. “This is where you’re meant to ask why heaven has a back door.”_

_“I figured God must’ve built it to sneak Mary past his Tía Sofia.”_

_“Shut up.,” Maria laughs. “He built it so all the dogs could get in.”_

_“Ok, my bad. Why were the angels sneaking out?”_

_“God was asleep and they didn’t want to wake him up. They knew he wouldn’t like where they were going.”_

_“Where was that?”_

_“Hell.”_

_“What were they going there for?”_

_“You’ll see. First, they stopped by the shores of a beautiful lake, with water so pure and so blue that you couldn’t tell where it began and the sky ended. There, they carefully scooped some of the water into their hands, and into cups they balanced on their wings. Then, they began the slow and careful descent into Hell._

_“As soon as they left the earth, the smoke began to sting their eyes and throats, and one angel (forgetting himself) threw up a wing to shield his face, sending one of his cups cascading into darkness. The angels, now half blind, unable to speak properly, ventured further down through the smoke until they reached the walls of fire. The first angel (the one without a cup) spread his wings wide around the other two, protecting their cups from the heat.”_

_“Angels are fireproof?”_

_“Yes, of course,” Maria’s hands are gentle in her hair, stroking in time with to the rhythm of her voice. “But, while the angels were fine, a particularly high flame leapt high over their heads, melting the cups on the wings of the second angel. My Tía Sofia always said that her screams are what made the Grand Canyon. But the angels kept on going, past the smoke and the flames. They passed under dark clouds, from which an evil rain fell, polluting the water of the last angel’s cups. Now they had only the water they had scooped into their hands, which they had kept safe against their bodies._

_“Demons, however, had noticed what they were doing and jumped at them, ready to attack. Two of the angels jumped in front of the third, throwing their hands up to stop the demons, but losing all the water they had brought. Now there was only one angel left to finish their task. With the other two angels now free to protect her, they fought their way through the claws and the teeth.”_

_Dean closes her eyes and thinks she can see them: dirty, tired and determined. Wings burned and bloody, heavy with melted gold, eyes fixed ahead. She feels their exhaustion in her own bones, alongside the knowledge that she just has to keep going. “Why?” she whispers, half expecting her voice to be hoarse from the smoke._

_“They were heading for the darkest, hottest pits of hell – the place where the sinners were kept to suffer. There were so many of them, crowded together in endless screams. They saw the angels coming and raised up their faces, begging to be rescued. To be forgiven.”_

_“Is that what the angels had come to do?”_

_“No. Only God could’ve done that.”_

_“Then why come at all?”_

_“To bring them the water. The angel knelt at the edge of the pit, allowing the water to spill from her hands one drop at a time and onto their dry and cracking lips. There wasn’t enough for everyone, of course, so the other two angels laid their hands upon the sinners’ foreheads, cooling them. Then, once they had done all they could, they spread their wings and flew away.”_

_“Forever?”_

_“No. They came back the next night, then the next and the next and the next. If you ask my Tía Sofia she’ll tell you they’re there tonight too.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Relief. The angles knew they couldn’t save the sinners, so they wanted to show them that they weren’t forgotten.”_

_They’re both quiet for a while. Dean can hear Maria’s Tía Sofia snoring softly in the other room._

_“It’s a beautiful story,” she says eventually. “But it also feels cruel to me. Almost like the angels keep reminding the sinners of what they can’t have. Of what they can’t be.”_

_Maria hums, tracing some pattern on Dean’s shoulder with her finger. “I used to think to so too,” she says._

_“Not anymore?”_

_“No. Not anymore.”_

_“Thank you, Maria. I really mean that.”_

_“Like I said. It’s the least I can do.” They don’t speak after that, and Dean lets the warmth of Maria’s arms around her pull her down…_

…She’s not sure how long she stays like that in Cas’ arms, but she knows when she wants to move again, when the heat in her stomach spreads into desire. They’re kissing again and he’s moving her backwards towards the bed. Her shins hit the frame and there’s the familiar tilting, the protest of springs as her back hits the mattress. For a second Cas looms above her, looking concerned. His face clears when she laughs, however, and she swings herself onto the bed properly, pulling Cas gently until he’s next to her.

Reaching down, she takes his dick in her hand and starts to stroke, grinning in satisfaction at the strangled noise he makes. She thinks it’s probably the most human he’s ever sounded. She goes a little faster, and feels as he starts to thicken in her hand. He buries his face into her neck, and she puts her other hand in his hair.

She can feel his hand reaching down between her legs, and she opens them a little wider. She expects his touch to be clumsy and rough, but his fingers are gentle, almost expert, as he starts to rub her clitoris in small circles that send sparks of pleasure up through her body. She’s panting and it’s becoming harder and harder to focus on anything except the warmth and rising pressure…

_…the pressure of a hand on the small of her back is light, but noticeable. She turns, and notices while doing so how narrow this hallway is. The hand on her back stays, in fact it slides lower, and squeezes. She’s got a thousand barbs on her tongue, an endless list of comebacks she’s sure will reduce him to a crying heap at her feet. But, when she meets the eyes that the hand belongs to, and sees that they’re squinting at her from a face so wrinkled and kindly that it could be a Mall Santa’s, the words die in her throat so that all she can do is stare in shock._

_He squeezes again. This finally spurs her into action._

_“I’d take that hand away,” she says, easy like. “Unless you want me to break it.”_

_His hand drops, likely on instinct as he doesn’t back away. She glances quickly over his shoulder, wondering how loud he’ll have to yell before someone comes to his rescue. The bar is mostly empty – it’s a Tuesday afternoon – and the few patrons are so absorbed in their drinks that they’d probably miss a bomb explosion. She catches Sam watching her from their booth, already halfway out his seat with a scandalised sort of frown, but she jerks her chin down and gives her head a subtle shake. She wants to do this herself._

_The man is still smiling, even if he isn’t touching her, and she decides that’s what she wants to get rid of first. “What’s got you so happy?” she asks, still calm._

_“Well…s’not every day a man gets to see an ass as fine as yours walk by,” he slurs. “And then it turns around and I get to see that face as well,” he leans in closer and she doesn’t keep the revulsion from her face at the wave of spilt beer and stale piss emanating from him. “How ‘bout you and I get a drink somewhere?” The hand is back, though on her shoulder this time._

_It’s in the split second that it takes her to decide whether she’s going to sprain his wrist before the witty one liner or after, that a larger, cleaner hand comes down on the man’s shoulder and wrenches him around. It takes a few seconds for the man’s wavering gaze to travel up to Sam’s face, though when he finally does he cringes back – enough that Dean has to press herself into the wall to avoid touching him._

_“She’s not interested,” Sam says. “Fuck off.”_

_“S’rry man, S’rry,” the man holds up his hands apologetically, ducking under Sam’s arm and beginning to stumble away. “Didn’t realise she was taken.”_

_“Jesus,” Sam says, watching him go. “What a cree – Ow!” He rubs his arm where Dean’s just punched it. “What was that for?”_

_“I told you I was ok!”_

_“Yeah I know but –”_

_“So why’d you come over here all white knighting?”_

_The confusion and hurt expression on his face slides into petulant anger. “I only wanted to help.”_

_“Yeah, well I didn’t ask for or need it. I’ve been dealing with creeps like that since before your voice dropped, and I’ll be dealing with them long after your hair falls out. So, in the future, maybe just leave me to it.” She turns and begins to walk back towards their booth, sensing rather than seeing when Sam begins to follow her. The man is at the bar; his back to them._

_Sam slides into the seat opposite her, still angry, though it’s bleeding into his own special brand of insufferable concern. “Dean,” he says, so seriously that she nearly laughs. “It shouldn’t be your job to stand up to misogynistic weirdos like that, and it’s messed up that you have to.”_

_“It also shouldn’t be my job to hunt shapeshifters or demons neither, but someone’s gotta do it, so I do it.”_

_“But you don’t hunt those sorts of monsters alone,” Sam points out, sounding sort of smug. “Besides, it’s men that do this crap, so it’s on other men to –”_

_He cuts off mid-word at her laugh – it isn’t one of her nice ones. “Gimme a break Sammy,” she says. “You think you’re some big feminist hero because you swooped in and defended my virtue from some drunk idiot I could’ve beat in my sleep? What about the next girl he tries to feel up on her way to the toilet, you gonna be there to protect her too? Because the way I see it: a man gets beat up by me he thinks twice about going after the next waitress with a short skirt that walks past. A man gets beat up by you and all he knows is to wait until you’re out the room.” Sam opens his mouth to say more but she speaks over him. “Besides, I told you I was fine, that I didn’t need help, and you didn’t listen. It’s like you can’t trust me to look after myself – like you think I’m just some damsel in distress that’s needs saving.”_

_Now it’s Sam’s turn to laugh – and it’s not one of his nice ones either. “Gee, Dean,” he says sarcastically. “I guess you’re right – I guess I’m just some patronising man who thinks all women are delicate flowers, and that’s why I don’t always trust you to tell me if you really need help or not. There’s nothing else, no other reason you’ve ever given me to think that.” He’s looking at her steadily, a challenge in his eyes._

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says stiffly, and Sam snorts, gets to his feet and turns towards the bar, muttering something about needing another drink. She watches him go and wonders what kind of lawyer he would’ve been – so quick to catch on but so slow to understand…_

_…he never understands how she does it, even when he knows what she’s doing. He always starts to big, too obvious, he doesn’t have her practice, her subtlety, or her tits._

_She starts as she always does: small. A tiny gasp, forced through the spaces between her teeth, as if she’s trying to hold it in. It’s the kind of sound you’d only catch if you were listening for it – and these two certainly are._

_It’s the man – Brad, she remembers, if only because it’s such a stupid name for a witch – who notices first, of course. He’s got blue eyes and a face that’d be sort of handsome if she didn’t know about all the dead babies. He looks at her and smiles like they’ve got a secret between them. she knows how this goes, so she turns her head away, like he’s caught her in some act._

_“Katrina,” he says. “Do that again.”_

_Thin, cold hands yank at the chains again so she lets out another gasp – though this one is even quieter, and she keeps her lips pressed together – as if she’s really trying to hold it in._

_“Oh,” Katrina smiles. “Did that hurt?”_

_She just glares – not quite sure if she’ll able to get the right tone of voice just yet. She also lets her eyes dart over Katrina’s shoulder, knowing they’ll see it but also knowing they won’t understand. Sam’s ok, and he (thankfully) hasn’t quite caught on yet – too absorbed in testing his own restraints to realise the shifting attention in the stuffy basement. Brad sees her looking._

_“Worried about your boyfriend, gorgeous?” he leans in close, she can feel his breath on her ear. “Worried he might be a bit…excited? Seeing you in this state?”_

_“Shut up,” she hisses, knowing they’ll take her disgust as fear because that’s what they want from her. Katrina laughs – reaching out of Dean’s line of site for a knife._

_“I think he will be,” she says. “Hunters – the male ones at least – they’re all like that at least a little bit. Why else would they spend so much time killing?” She brings the knife down across the thin line of skin between Dean’s jeans and her shirt, pressing down hard enough to bleed._

_“Like you can talk,” she says, keeping the pain from her voice. “At least the things we kill have it coming.”_

_“Oh I bet that’s what you like to tell yourself.” Brad has the knife now. He slides it up and under her shirt – and she can’t help but shiver as the flat edge passes over her skin. He notices of course, and presses in closer. She can smell him – expensive cologne not quite overpowering rot. “That he’s a big strong hero.”_

_“Fuck off you – shit!” she can’t help her voice tapering into a hiss as Brad slices the knife in deeper than Katrina did, she can feel the blood begin to seep into her clothing. Across the room Sam, finally catching a clue it seems, snaps his head up._

_“Don’t,” he hisses, and she’s not sure if he’s talking to them or to her. “Don’t you do this.”_

_“Aww what’s the matter?” Brad says with mock concern, he steps to the side a little, giving Sam a clearer view of the blood on her shirt, of his hand underneath it. “Am on your territory?”_

_“Hurt her again and I’ll kill you,” Sam promises, predictably._

_“Come over here and stop me,” Brad taunts, and Sam practically growls – unable and also probably unwilling to do anything else with all eyes on him. Dean shifts slightly, lets out another gasp as the movement pushes the knife deeper into her flesh. Both Brad and Katrina’s gazes shift back to her._

_“Hmmm,” Katrina slides her own hand under Dean’s shirt – fingers digging into the wound, coming back bloody. She smears it on Dean’s face – across her lips. “So pretty. Must be hard for you.”_

_“Funny,” Dean grits out as Brad makes another deliberate cut across her belly. “I was thinking the same thing about you; except in your case it was about being so fucking ugly.”_

_She’s expecting the slap, but it still comes with enough force to whip her head to the side. Her cheek snaps against the wall and she feels it split. Across the room, Sam is shouting useless threats, and she wants to snap at him to shut up and get a move on – that he should have a better use for all this time she’s giving him. Instead, she turns her face defiantly back towards Katrina, who seems almost disappointed._

_“That was weak,” she says, shaking her head. “Going after my appearance like that – you probably don’t have many female friends do you? It always makes me sad to see a woman so content to be in your kind of position.”_

_“What?” It takes her a couple seconds to really process that – distracted as she is by the pain in her face – but she knows she needs to, needs to figure out what sort of victim she has to be here._

_“Always the weak one; always the one in pain; never in control. Just some prize for the boys to fight over,” Katrina smiles smugly. “I can’t imagine what that must be like.”_

_“I think she likes it,” Brad says. “And I bet I’m going to like it once we can get you making some real noise.”_

_He starts to push the point of the knife into her stomach with an agonising slowness. She can feel as it presses through skin and begins to tear through muscle, and it hurts so badly she can’t keep from screaming. She can hear Katrina laughing and Brad panting and underneath it all she thinks maybe there’s the sound of chains swinging and hopes that means Sam’s finally freed himself, and not that he’s pulling against them shouting like he often does._

_“Beautiful,” Brad whispers. “Y’know…”_

_“…you’ve got the nicest tits of any righteous man I’ve ever seen.” He doesn’t need to sharpen the knives down here of course but he still does it every time. Prolonging the unbearable moments between pain. Slow and deliberate movements until the blade is humming at a low frequency that lingers in the air and permeates through to her dreams._

_[AN: Demons Lie]_

_“You must not get that many down here.”_

_“Righteous Men?”_

_“Tits.”_

_That makes him laugh hard enough that he stops, lowers the blade, though the humming persists. She thinks it probably lives inside her now, shattering her from within while Alastair carves from without._

_“I like you,” he says, voice shifting between a thousand different registers. “Almost as much as I like your tits. I Like a challenge.” He drifts closer, casually, knife still in hand, rests it on her cheek. It’s cool, almost nice. “Women are always harder. God gave you pain. You know what to do with it. You know you deserve it. You don’t resent it, not the way men do.” The knife slides lower, resting on her stomach now. “I could take it out for you – give it to you to hold and to use instead of just to bear.”_

_“I’ll pass,” she says, like she’s said before. Like she’s going to say again._

_Alastair doesn’t look surprised, if anything he looks pleased. “Like I said: I like a challenge.”_

_The knife is inside her now and its hot, burning and slicing at the same time. She can feel her own blood choking her from the inside. The humming rings in her ears; she can’t hear her own breath but she can still hear Alastair’s voice._

_“Blood, pain and tits. That’s all you are: all anyone’s ever needed you to be. All you’ve ever been for your father, your brother, your lovers. Something to hold or something to hurt.”_

_She opens her mouth and blood pours out, running down her chest and down between her legs._

_Alastair grins at her. “No point in denying what we can’t change is there, Dean?” He does something with the knife and there’s more blood and more pain. More humming. “It’s not like slicing those tits off would make much difference – and I would know, wouldn’t I? So why not learn to use it?”_

_But I do, she tries to say. I do. The blood bubbles._

_“Ah but you’re already an expert, aren’t you?” He strokes a hand through her hair. “What I meant was: why not learn to use it for yourself?”_

_She finally manages to cough through some of the blood in her throat. “I wouldn’t be. I’d be using it for you. And I’d rather fucking die every day for the rest of eternity than do_ anything _for you.”_

_That just makes him laugh again, and he pulls her up by the hair so their lips are almost touching. “I’d’ve been disappointed if you were putting out this early,” he says, though she can barely hear him over the humming. “What kind of righteous man would you have been then? Besides,” he lets go so her head will crack against the rack, staining her hair red with blood. “The more you say now, the more fun we’ll have when you finally do break. Something to think about.”_

_He steps back, letting go of the knife inside her. It keeps pushing deeper, deeper than she thinks it should be able to. It’s a hot piercing pain, spreading in slow waves. Her mouth is open but she doesn’t know if anything’s coming out. She can’t hear anything except humming, feel anything except pain. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to go someplace the pain can’t reach. But every thought, every memory is shattered by the humming until…_

…until she feels something give way inside and gentle waves of pleasure begin to roll through her, and she presses her face into the place where Cas’ neck meets his shoulder, legs twitching, breath stuttering. It’s muscle memory and instinct that keeps her hand moving, and it’s only a few seconds later that she feels Cas shuddering – his movements an echo of her own.

She keeps her face buried against his body, hoping he won’t notice her tears. But he notices, of course, because there’s no sweat for them to mingle with, and probably because he’s an angel who can sense things down to their molecules. She feels him shift, try to pull away so he can look at her with concern in his eyes. She responds by pushing herself closer.

“Don’t,” she says into his skin. “Please. I’m fine. I promise. I’m fine.”

“Dean,” he doesn’t sound like he believes her. “If I…”

“Please Cas, let’s just stay like this. Please?”

He doesn’t answer, but she feels his arms encircle her, their warmth chasing away the cold that’s already seeping back into the room. She thinks it might be nearly dawn, and she’s not sure what she’s going to do tomorrow, so she thinks instead about what she wants to do now.

“Thank you,” she says. “For all of it.”

He nods. “Sleep,” he says. “I’ll watch over you.”

She does.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've enjoyed, I could probably write this stuff forever tbh.


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